


The Gates of Great Darkness

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Dark, Drama, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-14
Updated: 2006-08-14
Packaged: 2018-10-26 15:27:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10789440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: What have you become if you're a Wizard whose magic has been ripped away by a curse? Ron and Draco are forced to find out, but their paths take very different routes.





	The Gates of Great Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes:

This was originally written for the Ron/Draco Summer Feast challenge. 

Requestor: Mad Maudlin[](http://mad-maudlin.livejournal.com/)  
Suggested plot/situation: Both Ron and Draco lose their magic. One of them copes better than the other.  
Warnings: I don't want to plaster an obvious warning on this as it will give away the ending. Let me simply write this: Angst. Dark, bleak anguish. NOT A HAPPY ENDING. I can't stress that enough. I've written many stories recently that are upbeat; **this is not**.

* * *

At the moment Ron crossed the diaphanous border from unknowing into consciousness, he immediately wished he hadn't. Something was terribly, horrifically wrong. With every fibre of his being he tried to pull himself back into sleep, but to no avail.

"Ron— thank Merlin." His mother's voice, laden with relief, only confirmed that Ron had no business being awake. His eyes slowly opened nonetheless.

_Traitors._

"Oh, Ron." Against the shocking light, Molly looked as though she had a halo. Ron realised she must be holding his hand, as his body now registered a pressure there.

"Draco?" he asked, voice gravelly with disuse.

"He's here, Ron, he's here. You're both going to be fine. Just fine."

The over-bright shining of her eyes revealed her motherly lie.

"What happened?" Ron croaked. The rogue Death Eater attack had been so unfathomable, it being eight years after the War, that he and Draco had been nearly mortally unprepared. It was still no fucking excuse. Whatever had happened to Ron, he deserved it for not defending his bondmate to the death. Ron suddenly felt as though he'd been force fed a bowl of sick and his stomach heaved.

"Ron, are you okay? You've gone all green," Molly said, pressing a cool cloth against his already clammy skin.

"What happened," Ron forced the words out through his constricted throat, "to Draco?"

His mother let out a deep breath and squeezed his hand. "It was a curse. Thank Merlin it wasn't a killing curse, but it was full of Dark Magic of the worst kind. From the analysis Remus has done, it seemed to prey on the binding between you, but it was far more unspeakable than that."

"Stop hedging," Ron said weakly, wishing he had the energy to convey his emotions and not simply lie there in sheer exhaustion of being alive.

"Your magic's gone," Molly said in a hushed voice. "Yours and Draco's. The curse tore it out of you, very nearly killed you." She sniffed before regaining her composure. "It can't be remedied. The Healers and specialists have tried everything they know and then some. You two are lucky to be alive at all. I thought I'd lost you," she said, shaking her head as silent tears meandered down her cheeks. "But you're both going to have a full recovery."

"How's that?" Ron said, wanting to retch. "You just said I've become a Squib."

"Ronald!" Molly was appalled. "You're not a Squib, or a Muggle. Far better to live without magic than to _die_! How dare you treat your life, the life your father and I gave you, with such disregard? You didn't survive that atrocious War just to turn around and—"

"What am I, then?" Ron interrupted, his energy quickly fading. "Not a Wizard, not a Squib, not a Muggle."

"You're my dear, brave son."

Unconsciousness beckoned to Ron, and with a groan, he gratefully accepted.

**..:~:..**

The next time Ron awoke, it was to voices: Draco's and one he didn't recognise. Ron felt stronger; better was a bit too optimistic a concept. He let his eyes gaze around without moving his head, trying to confirm where he was. St. Mungo's. Bolstered by hearing his lover's reedy baritone, Ron forced himself up to his elbows. Draco was in a bed to Ron's left. A Healer with an insignia Ron didn't recognise sat in a chair next to Draco, speaking quietly to him. At the rustling noise of sheets, Draco turned to look at Ron.

"You're awake," Draco said, the faintest shadow of a smile crossing his lips.

Ron nodded, looking his partner over to the best of his ability, given that Draco's upper body was clad in a shapeless, seafoam green, standard-issue hospital top, and the rest of him was under the covers. He didn't seem to have any new scars. Though it shouldn't have been possible, Draco seemed paler than usual.

"You okay?" Ron asked in a scratchy voice before clearing his throat.

"Been better." With those two words, Ron innately knew that Draco was suffering as savagely as Ron. He suddenly wanted to punch his hand through a wall.

The Healer got up from his chair, pulling his thick silver hair behind his ears. He walked over to Ron, nodding at him. "I'm Healer Raven Abbott. Once you and Mr. Malfoy are in a satisfactory state of physical health, you'll be able to return to your home. That's where my training comes in."

"You deal with curse-made Squibs?" Ron ground out bitterly.

"I work with wizards whose ambric energy is damaged. The curse you survived not only eviscerated your topological suffusion of power — the exterior manifestation of your magic, usually channelled through a wand — but it also seeped into the integument of your life essence, the source of your ambric energy. We've been able to complete several regimens of repair while you've both been in comas, but I also intend to help you adapt to what will be essentially a new way of living."

Hot and icy currents alternately flashed through Ron as amorphous, anxious thoughts threatened to unhinge him.

"May we be alone?" Draco asked smoothly. "This is the first time since the attack that we've been conscious at the same time. Ron and I haven't had a chance to talk with each other yet."

"Of course." Healer Abbott's hazel eyes bore kindness but no pity, for which Ron was grateful. "I'll check in on you at a later time."

Moments later, the two were alone in the room. Ron looked desperately at Draco, at his luminous grey eyes, his lips set in a tight line. Draco slowly pushed away his sheet and coverlet, unfurling gingerly before sliding off his bed and padding the few steps over to Ron's bed. Ron pulled back his bed coverings and scooted over, making room for Draco's slim form. They lay in each other's arms for a while, Ron breathing in the refined scent of his partner, an indefinable mix of aged port and ancestral oaks.

"We're going to be okay," Draco said.

Ron wished fervently that he could believe him.

**..:~:..**

It was a full fortnight before they were given permission to leave St. Mungo's, and only after being given a thorough going-over by the Head of Hospital himself, Graeme Frogmorton. Through a trusted Muggle secretary that Draco kept at his one-person investment company, a hired car driven by a Wizard picked them up and took Ron and Draco to their home in Wolverhampton, accompanied by Healer Abbott. Thankfully, the Healer had been around the two off and on during the prior fourteen days and didn't prod either of them to speak about their feelings. For himself, Ron was full of misgivings. No one was entirely sure that they'd even be able to get through the door given the wards that were in place. The attack hadn't occurred at their house, it had taken place just outside a pub they frequented; rather brazen, really. Ron knew that the Death Eater had already been put on trial in front of the Wizengamot, sentenced and executed. In the back of his mind, Ron had always known there'd be a bit of a risk living with Draco; Death Eaters weren't known for their generosity toward turncoats.

The car pulled up the drive to their mid-sized house, set outside of the town and with built in privacy provided by the phalanx of shrubs former owners had planted. Once at the front door, the three got out of the car, their shoes crunching on gravel. Healer Abbott pulled a small megaphone-shaped item out of his valise.

"This amplifies your ambric energy," he explained. "Until proven incorrect, I believe that I can channel enough of your residual magical imprint to disarm the wards. Draco, do you mind stepping forward just a bit and raising your hand?"

He did, a disturbingly painful expression settling on his features. "I don't feel anything," Draco said in a strangled voice. "The wards. I can't sense them. Not at all."

Draco's distress spurned Ron into action. He stomped up to the door, feeling a perverse relief when he was thrown back, crashing arse-first down into the drive. He'd barely missed the car. He would be bruised and hurting soon.

_Good._

"What the fuck was that about?" Draco asked in shock, striding over to help him up from the sharp stones.

"I couldn't feel them either. Thought maybe they weren't there."

"We always put up the wards."

"This is as good a time as any to begin working through the many changes you'll need to make," Healer Abbott said, his voice tolerant but firm. "Let's try this again. Mr. Weasley, please stand back until we can disarm your demonstratively effective wards."

Scowling, Ron stood, rubbing at his sore elbow.

Draco looked at the house, concentrating as though about to cast a complicated spell. Ron's battered heart suffered another blow at the sight; he knew Draco was searching desperately within himself, hoping beyond reason to find some magic still there, to sense the powerful weave and weft of barriers they had enacted together, several years ago. Though it was subtle, Ron could see the instant Draco gave up. His sharp features seemed to crumple slightly. In that moment, Ron felt the true horror of what had been so brutally ripped from them. He closed his eyes as Abbott incanted a convoluted spell, paused, and made a satisfied grunt.

"Gentlemen, it's safe to enter your home."

Ron and Draco had never been the most physically demonstrative of couples, especially in public. The aftermath of having almost been murdered together and facing a lifetime without an integral part of who they were had changed Ron, however. Unselfconsciously, he took Draco's hand before crossing the threshold into their house, uncertain whether he would feel welcomed home or like an interloper into the life of another Ron. They went hand in hand before separating, seeking out those things that had brought each of them comfort. They came together again and again, looking for reassurance, and then moving on. Ron wandered through the rooms. He glanced at familiar wizarding portraits and photographs, at a vase with drooping, dead flowers, and an appallingly heaping stack of post. At the flapping of wings Ron held out his arm. As Ron stroked the feathers of their owl, Gabriel, he felt as though there'd been a crack in a time-turner somewhere, creating an alternative but undeniable reality into which he and Draco had been shunted. He alternately wanted to succumb to the pressing wave of tears and anguish that had been building up over days or to surrender to his rage, destroying everything he could lay a hand on.

"Messrs Malfoy and Weasley?" Healer Abbott called from the front foyer. "Draco? Ron? I'd like for you to meet me for a little while and then I'll leave you to get resettled."

With banausic steps, Ron went down the stairs to find Draco and Abbott in the kitchen. Draco was looking through the cupboard for tea and cups as Abbott looked on approvingly. It suddenly struck Ron that he'd not asked about his wand; the very thought of it made his palm itch with emptiness.

"Where're our wands?" Ron asked caustically. "I know we can't do shite with them now, but I'd really like mine back, for a memento if nothing else. Or if my magic comes back," he murmured under his breath.

"I have them, but not with me," Abbott said gently, treading over to the stove where Draco was staring dully at the range, the full kettle in his hand. Abbott pointed at the knob for the back burner. "Just push it in and turn it to the right. It'll fire right up."

Once the kettle was situated on the stove, Abbott turned back to Ron. "I don't think it would be wise to return them quite yet, but if you insist, I will, of course, give them back to you."

"I couldn't bear looking at mine," Draco said morosely. "Not now. Not yet."

Draco walked over to Ron and stood in front of him, his back to Ron's torso, pulling Ron's arms around him like a shield. "So what all would you care to discuss, Abbott?" Draco asked, tightening his grip on Ron's wrists.

"I'd just like to go through an average day, for you to tell me your routines so I have an idea of some of the pitfalls you may encounter these first few days," he said congenially. His toffee-coloured eyes seemed to bore inside Ron, making him defensive and irritable.

"Look Abbott, are you a Legilimens?" Ron asked angrily. "Because I was pants at blocking people before, and now I'm completely useless."

"Raven," the Healer said. "Feel free to use my given name. And no, I'm not. Besides, that would be unethical, and if there is one thing I take most seriously about my call to be a Healer, it is that I'm honest and forthright about everything that I do. I will cast no spell, perform no charm or auralic scan or do anything to either of you without your expressed knowledge and consent."

"Good," Ron muttered.

"Let's sit down," Draco suggested with a last squeeze to Ron's arms.

Over the next half-hour, they had tea while Draco and Ron elaborated on what transpired during their typical days. Raven offered suggestions for activities that required magic, though when it came to Ron's career, he had to acknowledge it was probably over in the manner Ron was used to.

"Can't rightly be much of a Quidditch coach if I can't even get a fucking broom to fly," Ron seethed.

"You may not be able to fly anymore, but there's nothing to prevent you from writing down all you've learned. You could publish a guide for future coaches. I'm sure that would be a well-received tome in the Quidditch world."

"I'm only 26. I've only been coaching a few years," Ron insisted. "I can't write for bollocks, either."

"How do you feel about commentating?" Raven probed. "You know the game and moves and players inside and out. That doesn't require getting on a broom. Again, your insights could be put to good use in the realm of sport."

"No interest," Ron grumbled, looking down at the tea leaf sediment in his cup. No Divination-inspired message there. "Draco's got money— we won't starve. It may take me some time to figure out what to do. I just don't expect there's a queue of people waiting to employ wizards with no magic."

It was becoming too much; Ron felt like one large, oozing sore with salt being mercilessly rubbed into him.

"I think I've done enough for today," Raven said, pushing back from the table. His shoulder-length hair was pulled back in a band, oddly enough reminding Ron of Bill. "I would like to perform a _Paxus_ , a deep-level healing charm. It should help you both feel more at ease as it will assist in recalibrating the faint amount of ambric power you still possess. The curse nearly sundered it completely, but you both put up impressively strong defences. The ambric damage is still quite severe. Do I have your permission?"

Ron looked at Draco, who nodded. Ron did as well. The Healer got out his wand and performed the charm on Draco, who sat impassively, eyes closed. Raven came around the table to stand behind Ron, chanting the same words as Ron struggled to feel anything, any of the magic that he knew was being infiltrated into his only-too-receptive body.

He couldn't feel a thing.

Not one twinging spark.

**..:~:..**

Later that evening, after they'd cleaned up from the embarrassment of food Molly's note described as 'just a little something for dinner' and Ron had imbibed a goodly amount of scotch, it occurred to him that he knew the cause of one of the dull aches throbbing so mercilessly in him. He found Draco in his study, methodically going through roll after roll of parchment. He looked up as Ron entered, his face impassive. Ron stood behind Draco and began rubbing his shoulders. His wide hands massaged deeply into Draco's tight muscles.

"Thank you," Draco said with a grateful sigh. "Feels wonderful."

Ron smiled slightly, leaning down so he had access to his partner's delicate ear. "It wasn't exactly highest in my thoughts while in hospital, but now that we're back home, do you want to…" He let Draco figure out the implied ending as he moved his hands down across the planes of Draco's chest, thumbing at the tempting nipples under Draco's shirt until they became hard nubs.

"Yes, gods," Draco murmured, arching back against the chair and snaking his hands up behind him to grasp at the base of Ron's back. "It really wasn't on my mind either, but Merlin I've missed you."

Ron rumbled throaty, indecent scenarios into Draco's ear until he squirmed in the chair.

"Bed," Draco groaned, turning his head to try and press his lips to Ron's. The angle was awkward, so Ron spun the chair around. Draco launched himself at Ron, feasting on Ron's mouth with a needy passion that left Ron gasping. He stumbled back, intertwining their hands as they walked quickly down the corridor to their large bedroom suite. Once there, Draco shed his clothes and ducked into the toilet as Ron stripped down as well and lit some candles for light. With most of his mind focused on how amazing it was going to feel to be inside of Draco again, reflexively Ron closed his hand around his absent wand, pointed it at their bedside table and said, " _Accio_ lube." Coming to himself, he stared at his outstretched arm, gesturing uselessly towards the drawers. He shook his head, trying to will away the flash of shame he felt at having forgotten he'd never summon something in that manner again.

Draco appeared in Ron's line of vision, pulling out a drawer and rummaging around until he found his favourite lubricant. He looked at Ron, at his arm still aimed at the piece of furniture, and nodded slightly.

"I wasn't thinking either," he said with a rueful shrug. "I cast a cleansing spell on myself. I know it didn't work."

"I don't care."

They met at the bed, Draco attacking Ron's lips and mouth, lapping into the hot cavern and sucking on Ron's lower lip with hungry noises that made Ron's cock ache. Tempted by the hard shaft bumping up his hip, Ron drew back. He scooted backward on hands and knees until the tip of Draco's cock bobbed tantalisingly in front of Ron's lips. Ron swallowed him whole, causing Draco to arch off of the bed.

"Merlin, Ron, fuck!" he yelled, thrusting into Ron's mouth with fierce abandon. Ron took it, wanting Draco to fuck his mouth, to let Ron give him as much pleasure with suction and sliding tongue while Draco vigorously pushed his shaft in and out. Ron loved Draco's cock, how the bulbous head felt hitting the roof of his mouth, the slightly bitter fluid he could lick out of the narrow slit.

"Not yet," Draco gasped, fingers grasping in Ron's shaggy hair. "Don't want to come yet. Want you in me. Hard," he demanded, urgency threading his voice.

Ron nodded. Thank Merlin there was no need for magic to engage in this most intimate act. He found the discarded tub of unguent and unscrewed it, scooping out a healthy dollop and slicking both hands. He coated his cock while sliding three glistening fingers into Draco's tight entrance. Draco let out a shuddering, primal moan, his feet planted on the rumpled bed coverings, knees splayed wide.

"You, _now_ ," he panted, shoving his hips so there was no mistaking his intent. He clenched his inner muscles around Ron's fingers and Ron's cock twitched in anticipation.

Apparently there was to be no further preamble. Ron looked down at his lover, at Draco's finely-boned fingers clutching their headboard until his knuckles glowed pink with exertion, his gaze challenging as though daring Ron not to fuck him so thoroughly that Draco would wince even getting up from the bed. Ron understood. Together they'd dallied on the periphery of life and death, making their bonding all the more indestructible. As the initial syllables of the curse had fallen on Ron's ears, he'd hurled himself in front of Draco, willing the spell to rage at him at full force, rather than his partner. It was only as Ron had felt his body falling, gravity grabbing at him too hastily when he'd realized the wave of malevolent magic would strike them both, despite his intentions.

Coming back to himself, Ron looked down where his fingers disappeared into Draco's body, at the riot of pale hair below the jutting cock, and withdrew his hand.

"Mine," Ron said, placing his prick at Draco's barely-loosened hole. He pushed into the constricting channel as Draco squirmed underneath him. "Mine. Mine. Mine," he chanted, brutally thrusting into the accepting heat. Draco thrashed, holding onto the headboard while making encouraging, defiant growls as he shoved against Ron again and again.

This wasn't pretty, loving sex; this was a loud, smacking, violent reclamation of each other. By rights they should be dead. With each _slam-withdraw-slam-withdraw-slam_ Ron affirmed how very much alive they were. He angled himself, hitting Draco's prostate in a relentless tattoo. One hand still on the headboard, with the other, Draco began vigorously fisting his cock, moaning a litany of profanity and adoration. It wasn't long before he came with a shout, closing his eyes as the white fluid fountained over his fingers. Draco's muscles squeezed around Ron's cock, pulling Ron's release out of him. He bellowed Draco's name, holding himself up on his hands as his orgasm poured into his lover's body. He pushed as far into Draco's arse as he could, straining against Draco's groin. After several moments, Ron's breathing began to slow and he looked into Draco's flushed face.

"Rough enough?" he asked, regretfully feeling his cock slowly returning to its usually flaccid state.

"Just what I needed," Draco said appreciatively, wiping his come-covered hand on the bed covering. "Thank you. You felt amazing."

"I think that's you," Ron insisted, carefully pulling out of Draco. "Guess I need to get a towel or something."

A bit stiffly, he got off the bed and retrieved a cloth from the bathroom. He blew out the few tapers he'd lit earlier before joining Draco under the sheets. They both cleaned up and settled into their usual physical proximities under the covers.

"I know it's still early but I'm exhausted," Draco said, shaking his head. "I don't have the energy I did."

"Me either," Ron admitted. "Maybe it was tied up in our magic."

"I hope not," Draco said wearily.

Ron pulled Draco to him, draping his arm over his torso. Draco looked both sated and lost, feelings Ron suspected were just as apparent in his own expression. "Guess we'll just have to see."

**..:~:..**

At some desolate, unfriendly hour of early morning, Ron woke up alone. Disoriented and nerves jangling on high alert, he jumped out of bed, scrabbling for his wand on the bedside table. As his memories caught up to his racing thoughts, he remembered that his wand was still in Raven's possession. With a dark sigh, he checked the other rooms before making his way downstairs. He found Draco sitting at the dining room table, drinking tea with the weary air of someone who's been awake for some time.

"Can't sleep?" Ron asked through a yawn, standing behind Draco and beginning to rub his shoulders.

"No," Draco said brusquely. "No security. Anybody could come in. Muggle, Wizard, whatever. We've got to fix that."

Draco, as a former Death Eater and then Order Member, had good reason to be paranoid. Security and safety in regards to himself and Ron had always been a priority; it only showed just how shaken he was that he'd let the Healer leave without taking precautions. Ron's still-fuzzy mind slowly recognized how right that was. Two jarring thoughts occurred to him: their door locks were pathetic without wards on them, and their fireplace was still connected to the Floo network.

"You're right," Ron said, rubbing deep circles against the knots in his lover's back. "I'll owl Hermione and ask if she'll send Raphael over first thing. Now that you've mentioned it, I don't feel safe either."

Draco turned to look up at him, his handsome face marred by the toll of being overtired, both physically and mentally. "We've no defences. Do you mind writing to Granger now?"

Ron shook his head. With a last affectionate squeeze, he went off in search of some spare parchment and a quill.

By seven a.m., Ron and Draco were having a very basic breakfast with Raphael, Hermione's husband. It had taken no few people by surprise, Hermione included, when Dean's Muggle cousin met and subsequently wooed her with relentless enthusiasm until she succumbed and they were married.

"Thanks for the owl," Raphael said, ridiculously chipper for the hour of the morning. "I'm really sorry about what happened, of course; you both were out but Hermione spent a lot of time at St. Mungo's with you on the front end. I came by a couple of times, too."

"Thanks, mate," Ron said, trying to accept the nicety for what it was.

"First we'll need to get some deadbolts installed, and some window locks. You'll probably want a telephone, too."

"A what?" Draco's voice sliced indignantly from the kitchen where he was anxiously hovering near the oven, trying not to burn some toast under the broiler.

"Telephone. It's a way to communicate if you're not magic. Hermione's got one installed at the Ministry so I can get a hold of her if need be. She's got loads of ways to get in touch with me," he said with a cheeky grin.

"Yeah," Ron said with a wan smile. "We're a bit one-sided now, too. Look. Why don't you write down what you think we need to have done, and what we don't understand, you'll explain."

"Brilliant!" Raphael said cheerfully. Despite an intense moodiness brought on by the lack of sleep, Ron felt a bit better in Raphael's company.

"Ow! FUCK!" Draco yelled, holding the edge of a baking sheet with a towel. He dropped it onto the counter with a clatter and shook his head. "Burned my fingers!"

"The toast looks excellent," Ron offered as Draco held his hand under the coursing tap.

"Maybe we should go shopping for some basic things you might not have needed before," Raphael suggested, pity daring to escape his brown eyes.

"Yeah."

**..:~:..**

The next week was a flurry of activity as their house was 'Mugglefied,' as Ron and Draco took to saying. Locks, a telephone, an alarm system that Ron would swear had more than an element of Abstrusology, pot holders, a slew of kitchen appliances. All of it was incorporated into their daily lives even as some deeply ingrained, elemental things were removed, the most painful being their removal from the Floo network.

"We just can't chance it," Draco had said in quiet tones the second night of their return. "No defences if somebody managed to find us."

They'd been very particular as to who knew the name of their home — The Chimera — but Draco was right. They really could only combat an intruder with brute force, which wouldn't do much against wand-inflicted curses and hexes. Or worse.

Ron had also been put in charge of writing Charlie, still with his beloved dragons in Romania. He appeared to fancy both genders, though he'd tended toward blokes in recent years, and some were Muggle. Draco was a tidy person by nature, but he also prided himself on being clean, inside and out. Ron was allowed only blowjobs until Draco found out non-Wizarding ways to make sure his inner posterior was properly cleansed. Ron wanted to know as well; since their too-close brush with death, he'd craved intimacy with Draco like never before, especially on the receiving end. Draco, while surprised, had rallied to Ron's requests, much to Ron's gratitude and satisfaction.

Ron attended a brief, but devastating ceremony as he stepped down as the Green Knights' coach. There were a surprising number of Wizarding media there, making it seem more like a press conference than the solemn, wrenching affair that it was for Ron. He was startled to realise that he and Draco were celebrities; there were almost no records of wizards surviving the curse that had been cast on them. Not only that, but coming from two long lines of pureblood families, that they now had no magic made them anomalies of the highest magnitude. There simply weren't other witches and wizards whose inborn magic had been violently torn from them, and survived.

Ron began to wish that he hadn't.

**..:~:..**

"I s'pose you could get a gun," Raphael said thoughtfully.

He and Ron were sitting over drinks in the dining room, Raphael with a Muggle fizzy beverage in a can and Ron with scotch. According to Draco, Ron was brooding. With the admonition that, 'The least you can do is get off that gorgeous freckled arse of yours and find out what self-defence we can employ,' Ron had gone to Raphael for guidance.

"What's that?"

Raphael set his fingers in a way so his thumb and forefinger resembled a sideways capital L, his pointer finger aimed at Ron.

Ron tilted his head, took a sip of his drink, and shook his head. "Dunno, mate. Do you point and wish for something? Sorry," he said, recognizing that the secretive shots of Muggle vodka he'd had earlier had made him a bit stupid and not thinking about his company. Of course no Muggle could wish for something to shoot out of his finger and have anything happen. It didn't work that way.

"No worries." Raphael smiled sympathetically. "A gun shoots bullets, at really fast speeds." At Ron's confused look, he said, "Bullets. Small, piercing metal. It's nearly impossible to get a personal license for a gun, but if you two really feel you need them, I'm sure Hermione could draft papers that would pass with the British registry. Or I could get them, um, illegally."

Ron drank some more, feeling the warm fuzziness seep into the very element of his being. It dulled the teeth of the maw of darkness that kept snapping at him. _Not a Wizard. Not employed. Useless. Burden. Better off—_

"Can I still get training if they're unregistered?" Ron asked belligerently, trying to rein in his maudlin thoughts.

"Yeah!" Raphael smiled widely and Ron couldn't help but smile in return at the perfect teeth, doubtless a gift from the Grangers senior. Nobody had teeth as straight as that from birth. "Then you and Draco can feel as though you've got a way to fight back, if you need to. Me, I'm grateful for Hermione's wand and spells, even though it's all rubbish to me."

"She's lucky to have you," Ron said, downing his scotch. "One of my very best friends since I was eleven."

"I know," Raphael said tolerantly. "I'm just glad to be able to help you and Draco out like this. I know Hermione was devastated when she first got the news."

"Really?" Ron poured himself another healthy serving, feeling soothed as he saw the amber liquid fill the glass.

"Of course." Raphael looked put out. "You and Harry and her… best mates for life. I've never seen her cry like she did when you and Draco got to St. Mungo's, all quiet and lifeless." His voice had taken on a reverential, somber tone. "I couldn't console her. Told her all the tripe I could, I mean, what do I know? You lot have Healers, not doctors. I'm still fairly new to all of this, leastwise on a daily basis. I mean, I love her with everything—"

"It's why she's so lucky to have you," Ron interrupted, hearing the creeping beginnings of a slur but willing himself not to care. "I'd like to get the guns. If I can't protect myself, I'm hopeless. And Draco will want to hold his own."

Ron saw the worry flit transparently across Raphael's dark features before he became resolved. "All right. But you absolutely must get instruction; guns are deadly. That's the point. There are precious few shooting ranges; I'll figure out a way for you to practise at one. Hermione will have my bollocks on a stake if I don't insist on it."

"Of course," Ron said scornfully, helping himself to his cup of numbing. "It's not as though I've not got loads of time on my hands."

**..:~:..**

Draco went back to work. Given that he'd been involved with the Muggle world before the attack, albeit indirectly, his re-entry into this new, magicless daily life wasn't nearly as jarring. Ron knew that Draco sensed Ron's increasing agitation with himself and their situation; it was Draco who suggested that Ron try doing something physical to help get rid of some of his anger and frustration. Skeptical at first, Ron grudgingly went for a run. It left him winded, and no small bit humbled.

"Rather different from flying," he grumbled to Draco over a cup of tea the next day, rubbing at his sore calves. "Do we have any of that Doloresque's Pain Potion?"

Draco gave him a sympathetic look. "Yes, I'll get it. Merlin knows I should join you in getting some exercise."

"You're as fit as ever. It's not fair," Ron said in mock exasperation, running a hand over Draco's backside as he walked past.

"Lucky for both of us," Draco said over his shoulder, winking as he did.

One of the things Raven had told them and both Ron and Draco were grateful for, was that the potions they were used to taking would still have their desired effects. They could no longer make any themselves, but their efficacy still worked in their bodies. Raven came out to them less often, though he'd visited frequently the first few weeks. He continued to cast the _Paxus_ on them and appeared pleased with his progress. Ron had quit believing the Healer's actions were actually doing anything, but Draco seemed soothed by it, and for Ron, that was enough. Raven returned their wands, but neither Ron nor Draco could bear to look at them. Draco put them side by side in a velvet-lined hickory box before putting them in the bottom drawer of a vast filing cabinet.

Once he got over the initial pain, Ron found that he enjoyed running, taking longer and longer routes as the weeks went on. He also spent a fair amount of time at target practise. He became an excellent shot, though his enthusiasm wasn't shared by Draco. Between Raphael and Hermione's contacts, two shotguns had been procured for them, using subversive means to allow the two to be armed. Draco didn't care much for the weapon, but he learned to use it and kept it with him, hidden away in a discreet holster.

Ron's days began to take on the same pattern: get up, have tea, read the _Prophet_ or, more and more often, _The London Times_ , go for a long run, shower, have lunch, read or take a nap, begin drinking. It had become comforting to him, how the alcohol took the edge off of his never-ceasing ache of loss. He knew that Draco had noticed, but kept from chiding him, at least most of the time. After a couple of months, Draco quit making not-subtle hints that Ron should find a new job, or volunteer, or do _something_ other than go running or lie about the house. This made Ron think that Draco had given up on him, adding fuel to his sense of failure.

For reasons elusive to him, despite his downward spiral, Ron craved making Draco happy more than anything, especially in bed. It was as though he was driven to be the best sexual partner to him, to pleasure Draco in increasingly innovative ways as a means to prove he still had some worth. In all other aspects, he felt as though he were utterly superfluous. Quidditch had been the great love of his life, from his earliest childhood. His position with the Green Knights had been how he'd come to identify himself— Coach Weasley, first; partner to Draco, second. All else tumbled far along after that: son, friend, brother, former schoolmate. Certainly there was security and contentment found with Draco, otherwise they wouldn't have gotten handfasted. But Quidditch had fed a joy in Ron's being for as long as he could remember, and the cruel reality that he was forever sundered from participating in it again heaped coals onto his smouldering misery. He did see Harry from time to time; visited Seamus and Dean, went out to clubs with Draco on occasion, and endured their obligatory visits to the Burrow where his mother's comments about how he looked became more alarming each time.

The truth was, Draco was adapting far more handily to their Mugglefied existence, and Ron found himself increasingly unable to cope.

**..:~:..**

Bit by splintering bit, day by self-inflicted monotonous day, the hopelessness and darkness settled into Ron's being, seeping into nearly every waking thought and putting up blockades to Draco's words of affection and worry. Despite its malevolence, the bleakness soothed him, especially once his mind-erasing beverage of choice was singing in his veins. Oblivion became rather tempting, its calming, wide gates promising relief from what Ron perceived as his own utter ridiculousness. He had no business being alive, really; it was unfathomable that he'd survived. In the ravages of his pummelled sense of self, he began to plot his way out. Ron could keep Draco satisfied, but Ron believed with every fibre of his being that Draco would be better off with someone else, or at least should be given the chance to share a life with someone not as useless as Ron had become.

His mind had been traipsing down such familiar, desolate paths one evening, reeling from the latest blow to his shattered psyche. He'd had the misfortune of turning on their wireless and hearing the match as his team beat the Magpies. Of course Ron was happy for them, but it seemed only to nail home his insignificance. Geoff McGhinty, the Assistant Coach, had moved up when Ron was forced to step down. It had brought Ron morbid pleasure to hear every play, to see the game in his mind's eye, as though a ghost. Which, when it got down to it, was how he'd begun to see himself. He was still lounging in the same chair next to the radio when Draco came home.

"FUCK! RON! Put that down!" Draco yelled in abject terror from the doorframe. "Don't! Please," he begged, walking into the room, the depth of fear in his expression one Ron hadn't seen before.

Ron was drunk. He lolled his head and only then recognised he'd placed his gun at his temple. He'd been thinking about using his firearm to free Draco, who surely would only be relieved. In Ron's inebriated stupor, he hadn't fully fathomed that he'd actually gone and retrieved the shotgun, and he was leaning his head against it.

"No, Merlin, oh fuck, please— hand it to me," Draco raggedly demanded, sinking to his knees.

With sluggish effort, Ron situated himself into an upright position in his chair, though it took an inordinate amount of concentration. _"You're fucking pissed,"_ he railed scathingly at himself, though even that ire was tamped down by the dulling, sympathetic alcohol. He gracelessly handed the gun out to Draco, who took it, placed it on the floor, and then did something Ron had never seen before: Draco burst into tears.

"Why? Ron, no, just, fuck, I can't do this, can't bear to watch you do this to yourself," Draco gasped into Ron's legs. The threnody of his hiccoughs and sniffling breaths only added to the surreality of the painful seconds passing by. "I love you, you fucking selfish arsehole," Draco gulped, clutching at Ron's knees. "You're supposed to love me back. How could you even think you'd do something like that?"

Ron pondered the question, surprised that Draco didn't see the answer as obviously as Ron did. "Doin' you a favour," he slurred, running his fingers through Draco's blond, silky hair, strangely unembarrassed to realise he, too, was crying.

"A favour?" Draco raged, his bloodshot grey eyes blinking furiously. "By killing yourself? Gods, Ron," He collapsed against Ron's shins, rubbing his forehead back and forth across the front of Ron's knees. "You're so self-centered. I can't do this, not if you're going to give up. Don't you fucking give up," he seethed, rising from the floor to straddle Ron's lap, taking Ron's jaw in his hands and savagely claiming his mouth.

Ron kissed back, draping his arms around Draco's shoulders and pulling him in as though to try and crawl inside. He wished he could; a shred of Ron desperately wanted Draco's affection for him to be able to draw him out of the pitch black cave into which he'd gaoled himself. Ron allowed himself to be stripped down, his cock responding to Draco's insistent ministrations despite how much he'd had to drink. As Draco sank down, impaling his narrow arse on Ron's shaft, Ron realised Draco evidently had done all sorts of things, like take off clothes and lubricate them both while Ron was in his induced fog. Deep, buried desire for his bondmate burbled up through him, and Ron thrust his hips up to meet Draco on his downward slams, trying to get as deeply inside him as possible. Ron wished he could be more tender, but even in his altered state he wasn't so far gone as not to know that Draco was doing what he needed. Ron clutched to the thought that he was doing _something_ right, something desired.

The next morning he woke up with a skull-splitting headache, and morose so visceral he tasted it on his tongue.

**..:~:..**

Ron tried over the next few weeks, he really did. Well, he tried to put on the most normal exterior he ever had, and it almost seemed to work. He lasted a few days before the bottle's undeniable calls made it past his weary façade. Ron became increasingly surreptitious with his drinking, both dismayed and grateful when Draco didn't pick up the change. Draco took them off to Italy for an extended weekend, and Ron felt more life in him than he had since the attack. But they couldn't stay there forever. Once back to Wolverhampton, Draco, being rather un-Draco-like and disturbingly like his mum, insisted on staying home from work to be around, keeping Ron occupied.

He enjoyed the attentions for a couple of days, but then the futility of it stretched poisonous tendrils into Ron's thoughts. Draco was doing well; he managed to bloody well thrive, he should be working. Ron began making plans to travel, under the auspices of seeing family. Draco supported the itinerary, until he saw the ending point.

"Stornoway? You've no family there," he said, glaring possessively.

"I just need some time away." Ron felt his own bruised inner batterings, could sense a false hope of healing out away from people, wizard or Muggle. "Honestly." He drew the map toward them, circling the dotted hamlets that speckled their way up to the top of the island of Lewis. "Nothing but sheep, rain, and Muggles who keep to themselves. I've got to be alone, Draco. Please," he pleaded, as much to himself as to his lover, who looked as though he were a whipped dog. Ron felt evermore that the nightmares that visited him so regularly at night had crept into his waking life. Aside from right after their attack, Draco never looked anything other than confident, or, when naked and gratuitously seeking Ron's touch, debauched. Ron had to get away.

Soon.

"I've spoken to Raven," he lied, his heart sinking when Draco released a sigh of relief. "He knows I've not taken to the _Paxus_ as you have, and he agreed that some time away from people will let what's left of my chafed ambric energy settle down for good. Or something like that, in Healer-speak, you know. Then I'll feel loads better and come back."

Ron was astonished at how willingly Draco accepted the fabrication, much less how easily he'd come up with it. He had no intention of returning, and he knew innately that Draco wouldn't go to St. Mungo's to grill their specialised Healer. Ron almost began to believe it himself, taking on his new role with renewed gusto.

"I'm seeing Charlie first, of course, then Ginny and Neville and their twins, then… well, the route's all there. Me and sheep, the salty air pounding some sense into me, and then back home. It's not that long," he said petulantly.

"No. But you'd best ring me every day. You can go, briefly, but only to places with Muggle telephones. I won't be able to sleep if you don't check in."

"Yes, mum," Ron grumbled, a grin sneaking onto his features. "So I'd best not ring and catch you on your mobile whatsit only to discover you're up to no good in some leather club."

"Moi?" Draco tried to look affronted, and failed. "If anything, I'll be oiling up your black pants. We'll go somewhere totally risque as celebration when you get back. Ten days, right?"

"Yeah," Ron said noncommittally. In his deeper recesses, he hadn't planned the days. They all stopped at the Butt of Lewis, somewhere between day nine and twelve. "Reckon I'll be right horny and anxious to get back."

"You'd better be." Draco drew Ron's right hand to his succulent mouth, lapping and kissing at the platinum handfasting band there. He looked at Ron through hooded eyelids. "I don't share, and you're mine. Don't fucking forget it."

Ron could almost hear the cracking open of his heart as he spoke his last truth.

"I couldn't if I tried."

**..:~:..**

**..:~:..**

The letter lay damply in his hands, the spray of the bitterly cold ocean wetting him with annoying repetition. Three scrolls worth; he'd written a fucking tome. He hated him. Hated him more than anyone he'd ever loved, which, unfortunately, was one and the same person.

With surprising dignity, Draco sank down on to his heels before sitting on the gritty surf. He scowled at the scuttling clouds, at their inability to remain still while he tried to gather his own choppy thoughts. Wind and pellets of rain stung him, but he ignored it, trying to will himself into Ron's head, though he could feel himself being shut out even at the exercise.

"So wrong," he murmured to his chapped fingers, to the churning waves, to the impassive rocks nearby, to the expanse of the sea that now cradled his beloved's body. Nothing and no-one answered him, not even a seagull. Blearily he looked around at the stark expanse, wishing it would somehow gift him with some semblance of an answer to any number of questions he had to ask. He wasn't above begging, anymore, albeit in private. Ron had taken on personal risk living with him, loving him, being bound to him. It had only made Draco all the more protective, especially after they'd lost their magic. But he simply couldn't fathom what had driven Ron to this isolated place, not after he thought he'd seen a glimmer of hope.

It was the cruellest pain he'd borne.

"Why?" he shouted, knowing full well there would be no reply.

**..:~:..**

The title is taken from the book of Job, 38:17 (NRSV).  
 _"Have the gates of death been revealed to you, or have you seen the gates of great darkness?"_

My gratitude, effusive and bottomless, to Wolfiekins and Jen for their betas.


End file.
